Subtle Weaponry
by briannaelise07
Summary: "You're going to keep practicing medicine?" the stern male voice uttered incredulously. "No one in their right mind would want a cripple as their doctor." House would never forget the shock of hearing these words drip like venom from his father's mouth, the poisonous emphasis behind the statement rendering him speechless... (References to Abuse) House/Wilson Friendship
1. The Anniversary

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters belong to their respective Copyrights.

 _"You're going to keep practicing medicine?" the stern male voice uttered incredulously. "No one in their right mind would want a useless cripple as their doctor."_

House would never forget the shock of hearing these words drip like venom from his father's mouth, the poisonous emphasis behind the statement rendering him speechless. And tonight - on the anniversary of waking up to Stacy's betrayal - he was unable to stop the worn record of the past from replaying over and over in his mind. Since the infarction, he has fought endlessly to disprove the illogical notion that his father was right. He pushed himself above and beyond with each diagnostic case - solving the otherwise unsolvable medical anomalies that were brought to his attention.

Slowly, his faith in his capabilities as a diagnostician returned - leaving behind nothing but a tiny lingering doubt that he buried under arrogance, sarcasm, and aloofness. However, tonight, the doubt resurfaced with a vengeance. His father always had a way of making him feel inadequate and insignificant, using his tongue as a particular weapon of choice. The physical abuse he endured as a child was nothing compared to the verbal knives his father aimed at him when he was down - defenseless and vulnerable.

House rose abruptly from his reclined position on his battered sofa, roughly tossing the cane away from him and watching with satisfaction as it clattered unceremoniously a few meters from his piano bench. Fierce determination ignited like a crackling flame behind his cerulean eyes as he clambered to his feet. He balanced awkwardly on his left leg, holding his breath in preparation for what he was about to do. Tentatively, he moved his mangled right leg ahead of the left without bearing any weight on it. He exhaled the pent-up air in a soft whoosh as he slowly shifted some of his weight to the right leg in an attempt to walk normally. His remaining thigh muscles screamed in protest as they tried to hold the additional strain.

As he took his first hopeful step, a spasm rocked his entire leg, and he collapsed into a heap upon the floor. The limb was totally locked up - an endless cacophony of spasms radiating throughout the offended muscle. His entire being was engulfed by a tsunami of pain, his vulnerable body unable to defend itself against each wave that threatened to pull him toward the dark waters of unconsciousness.

He was pathetic, unlovable, and weak. The possible adequacy of his father's words hit him in the chest like an anvil - further hindering his ability to breathe properly. _Well, maybe there was indeed some truth in those cold descriptions of me but not when it comes to my competency as a doctor - I am a damn good doctor, and he will never take that away from me._

House drifted in and out of consciousness for hours – during the brief moments of awareness, he was assaulted by images of his father's physical and mental attacks that slipped through the weak and cracked barriers of his mind. The pounding on his apartment door pierced sharply through the sea of memories – his pain-induced haze interpreting the sound as further torture from his father. He tensed in anxious resignation – unable to retreat from his fetal position on the floor.

"House, open this door right now! I'm giving you thirty seconds and I'm breaking this door down; I mean it!" the muffled voice demanded.

House moaned incoherent words in response, struggling to drag his ailing body backwards – away from the harsh tone seeping through the thin wood. His mind flashed back to a time long ago when his father's reign of terror first started.


	2. The Flashback

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters belong to their respective Copyrights.

" _But I just . . . I'm sorry, but you were wrong . . . that was just a myth . . . I did research for a history project on the statues of the soldiers mounted on horses . . . the position of the hooves didn't indicate the severity of the soldiers' injuries. You said that one hoof raised indicates a soldier was wounded while two hooves raised suggests the soldier died. However,_ _Confederate Lieutenant General James Longstreet's horse has one hoof in the air, even though he survived the battle uninjured.(1)_ _I thought you would be proud of what I learned," a twelve-year-old Greg stated defiantly._

" _You always have to be right don't you? You are an inconsiderate brat who will always be miserable and alone. You intentionally humiliated me in front of my entire family and closest friends from the Academy. You need to learn to show me some respect; I am your father, Greg. You . . ."_

" _I wouldn't be so sure of that," Greg mumbled._

" _What did you say to me, boy?" John demanded, slapping him with so much force that. Greg was thrown to the ground. He landed heavily on his side, leaving him slightly winded. He stared up at John, momentarily stunned by the wild rage simmering in his father's eyes._

" _Nothing, sir."_

" _Speak up when you're talking to me, Greg," John warned._

" _I said: Nothing, sir," Greg said with perfect military precision._

" _Go to your room and wait for me there, now!"_

 _Greg clambered to his feet and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his hurry to reach refuge. Once inside, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed – his glazed eyes staring at the door. A half hour later, the knob turned and rattled incessantly as his father attempted to pry open the door with his bare hands._

" _Unlock this door, boy; or I will kick it open. I mean it, Greg!" John yelled furiously._

 _Greg jumped as his father's heavy military boots connected with the door over and over again. Finally, after what seemed to be mere seconds, the door flew open, sending splintered wood sailing in all directions._

 _You're gonna get it now, boy," the enraged man spat as he lunged toward the trembling boy._

 _Large, intimidating hands grasped Greg's collar, lifting him roughly to his feet._

" _Strip your clothes, boy or I'll do it for you."_

 _Greg uncommonly did as he was told, peeling off every layer of clothing, except his underwear._

" _Take those off too, and face the far wall, palms flat against the surface."_

 _Greg followed his instructions – not wanting to test him. He heard the sound of leather snapping – and he swallowed nervously – bracing himself for the pain that was to come. When the belt finally connected with his bare skin, he inhaled sharply in surprise as he felt the metal portion of the buckle cut into flesh. His father rained blow after blow on every inch of his exposed skin, using as much force as he could behind each strike. Eventually, Greg collapsed limply to the floor, tremors wracking his body as he fought to stay conscious. Finally, he gave up, welcoming the blissful darkness that wrapped itself around him. As he lay in oblivion's comfortable embrace, he heard his father whisper, "Until next time, Gregory."_

(1) Credit for this information goes to freelance writer Sarah Kemp who worked as a USO center duty manager in Afghanistan for 20 months.

If you liked the story and think it's worth continuing, comment and let me know! Be polite and/or constructive with your opinions please! Thanks! Follow and/or Favorite! (=


	3. Nurse Jimmy

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters belong to their respective Copyrights.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding bang. On the threshold, stood a panting and disheveled Wilson – his features slightly obscured by his friend's shadowed apartment. His eyes darted around anxiously, searching for any sign that would reassure him that House was okay – thereby proving his instincts wrong. He knew in his gut that House would never purposely ignore him – not when Wilson was almost hysterical with worry as he begged the stubborn diagnostician to open the door.

The dimly lit hallway barely cut through the apartment's darkened interior, so Wilson cautiously stepped forward, feeling his way into the living room. As he felt his way around the leather couch, his foot connected with something soft, and he jumped back in surprise. Fear-induced adrenaline propelled him into action, and he dropped to his knees next to the prone figure on the floor.

"No . . . stop, Dad . . . can't take much more, please . . .," House mumbled. "Hurts too much . . ."

Wilson inhaled sharply in shock, not wanting to believe the implications behind that statement. The last time he had seen House this vulnerable was a few weeks after he had woken up from his medically induced coma to discover a chunk of his thigh muscle missing. He immediately shut down despite Stacy's desperate pleas for him to understand. He had drove Stacy away by simply ignoring her presence, but when she had left, the feelings that he had refused to acknowledge bubbled to the surface – the previous numbness evaporating almost immediately – a deep, permeating sadness taking residence in its place.

Wilson shook himself from the firm grip of the past, focusing on the troubling situation at hand. He gently squeezed House shoulder, trying to snap him out of the current nightmare he was trapped in. His fingers instinctively moved toward his neck, checking his pulse. It confirmed his fear: it was rapid – bordering on tachycardia. House subconsciously grabbed for his leg, and Wilson figured pain coupled with stress was most likely the cause of his abnormally rapid heartbeat. He rolled up his pants leg to evaluate the state of his thigh. House whimpered in protest, his eyes remaining closed as he attempted to retreat.

"Please, leave my leg . . . Don't take it . . . I can't lose anything else. . . No, not a useless cripple," he muttered weakly as another spasm swept through the damaged muscle.

"House, wake up! It's me, Wilson! Let me help you, please," he demanded softly.

House jerked slightly, and finally, slid his eyes open. "Wilson?" he asked uncertainly, his voice hoarse.

"Yep, just ol' Wilson, House, nobody else," he replied, attempting to slip into their normal banter. "Will you let me help you now and stop being so stubborn?"

House relaxed slightly, and after some persuading, he allowed Wilson to massage the quivering muscle until some of the tension released. "Is that better?"

House diverted his gaze from Wilson's searching and concerned eyes, but nodded in confirmation. Wilson sighed, and gently picking up his wrist, retook his pulse to assure himself that he was indeed telling the truth.

"Do you know where you are? You were a bit confused earlier . . ." Wilson trailed off at House's glare.

"I'm at my apartment. I'm fine, Wilson!" he grumbled

"Your pulse is still dangerously high. I may have to administer a low dose of morphine, just to take the edge off. Okay?"

House narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and Wilson looked away, guiltily, interpreting the hidden meaning behind that gaze.

"House, look . . . I'm sorry that I've been so dismissive when it comes to your chronic pain. It has always been the central issue here; I know when you underwent the ketamine treatment and was pain-free, you gave up the pills. It's just . . . it's become such a normal aspect of your life that I've become used to it and forget that it never goes away for you – not really. I guess I try to dismiss it as merely psychosomatic because I don't want it to be real for you . . . Because if it is 'all in your head' then it can be treated somehow. I just . . . I hate seeing my best friend suffer," Wilson admitted quietly.

House's eyes widened slightly at his seemingly sincere confession. "Why the sudden change of heart?" he asked warily.

"You've never let me touch your leg before today, at least not during a full-blown spasm. I felt each jerk and tremor of the muscle and how your body tensed with each convulsion. That was tangible – that was real," Wilson replied, still too ashamed to face House.

"Wilson, look at me," House requested sternly. Wilson did as he was told, but there was unmistakable remorse and fear in his eyes as his gaze met the older man's. House's eyes softened and he nodded minutely – conveying his understanding and so much more with that simple gesture. Wilson smiled in relief. House believed him; they would be okay. House grimaced as the thigh muscle began to tighten – signaling the possibility of another spasm.

"Well, go on, already, Nurse Jimmy. Morphine's in a shoebox on the top shelf of my bedroom closet," House grumbled, a slight smirk gracing his haggard features.

Wilson rolled his eyes in fake exasperation and sprinted toward the bedroom to retrieve the shoebox. When he returned, House was desperately attempting to coax his convulsing thigh into submission, his eyes closed tight against the pain. Wilson knelt down beside him, quickly and efficiently administering the promised dosage that would grant House a temporary refuge from the pain.

House sighed in relief as the drug swept through his system – the narcotic numbing the pain down to a manageable level. "Well, I think it's time to get the cripple off the floor; Paging, Nurse Jimmy!"

"You're hilarious, House. Sit up, and I'll get your cane . . . why is it clear across the room, anyways?"

House pretended not to hear him, instead he maneuvered himself into a sitting position and leaned heavily against the couch. Wilson handed him his cane and wrapped his arm around his waist to provide additional support as House used the cane to lever himself to his feet. When he was settled into a comfortable, reclined position, Wilson retreated to the recliner, studying his friend.

"What?!" House demanded.

"Who called you a useless cripple?" Wilson asked softly.

"Don't, Wilson; we are not talking about this. I was just having a nightmare – nothing more, okay," House demanded sharply.

"You were not just dreaming, House. You were remembering something that actually happened," Wilson persisted. House ignored him, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and turning the television on.

It was your dad, wasn't it?" he asked quietly. House abruptly threw the remote at the TV screen, causing Wilson to yelp in surprise.

"Why do you care, huh? You didn't bother fishing for details when I refused to go to the funeral, just thought I was being an ungrateful son and forced me to go. Nothing ever happened. I had a delightful childhood. Now, get out!"


	4. The Nightmare

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters belong to their respective Copyrights.

 _"Wilson knows."_ The thought wove itself around House's mind into a head-splitting vice, and he massaged his temples – trying to ease the tension. _He just witnessed me have a stress-induced flashback. He is not going to let this go._ Wilson had indeed left after House's outburst – somewhat resembling a scolded puppy as he reluctantly slinked away. However, House knew that this was far from over.

Wilson would broach this topic again – probably with a slightly subtler approach. His compulsive need to comfort and encourage the broken wouldn't allow him to simply accept what he had learned without exploring House's caged psyche. _He would most likely want me to face it and deal with this – like a normal person. But all that really does is cause more pain._

He rubbed at his thigh subconsciously, forcing himself to wait a few hours before popping a couple of Vicodin. _Probably just a physical manifestation of buried emotional pain_ , he thought, mockingly, remembering Wilson's and Cuddy's confident analysis of the pain that was often his only companion – an annoying, constant burden that never abandoned him. God, he was pathetic. Soon, he drifted off into a stormy sea of nightmares . . . unable to fight the exhaustion anymore.

 _"_ _Greg? Wakey, wakey!" a voice sang menacingly. Greg opened his eyes to see his father looming before him – dressed in surgical scrubs. His father walked away once he had his attention, bending his head slightly over a table as if examining something. Greg surveyed the area quickly, noting the familiar surroundings as a hospital room. Panic flooded through him – constricting his breathing._

 _"_ _You know, Greg, I always knew you were a coward – always looking for the easy way out of a tough situation. Well, I'm gonna rectify that. A real soldier embraces pain because it makes him stronger. You are weak. You chose the simplest way to rectify the situation with your leg – not even brave enough to make the 'whole' sacrifice like a true fighter. Well, we'll fix that," his father announced quietly without turning to face him._

 _After a few minutes of silence only interrupted by Greg's ragged breathing, his father spun quickly on his heel, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he approached the bed. When he saw the weapon held securely within his father's grasp, Greg tried to flee but suddenly found himself restrained to the bed, unable to move._

 _"_ _If you're gonna be a useless cripple at least this way they'll be some honor to it. A good soldier never does anything half-way," John sneered. He held the axe aloft, several inches above the knee of his infarcted leg._

 _"_ _Please, leave my leg . . . Don't take it . . . I can't lose anything else . . . No, not a useless cripple," he muttered desperately._

 _"_ _I am doing you a favor, Greg," he uttered quietly as he swung the axe down forcefully._

(I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I'm not completely satisfied with it and may end up rewriting it. Any recommendations on how to improve it is welcome. I'm suffering from a bit of writer's block. Thanks! I also made a couple of minor changes to Chapter 1 and 3, so reread those if you have a chance.)


	5. The Diagnostician's Diagnosis

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the characters in this story; they each belong to the writers and producers of House MD. The only thing that belongs to me is the story-line! Enjoy!

Exhaustion wrapped itself around House's body and mind, causing him to sag heavily against his cane for extra support. He shuffled into the double doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital at half past 12, glaring at the receptionist until she caught the not-so-subtle hint and signed him in. The staff simply ignored his haggard appearance, blaming his condition on an all-night differential with the ducklings or his two most faithful bedfellow, scotch and Vicodin. However, they only had rumors and glimpses of House's lifestyle to back up their claims, which in Housian terms made their diagnosis sloppy and simply _wrong_. As he crossed their line of vision, he avoided their looks of disdain, feeling as if the words "Addict" and "Useless Cripple" were stamped on his forehead.

Far be it for him to have normal issues, such as bad dreams; no one would believe that the Evil Mastermind of Diagnostics experienced the same ailments as everyone else. He could almost hear them scoff: _He gives other people nightmares; he doesn't have them_. House snorted. _If only they knew_.

Ever since _Wilson_ discovered the truth about his past, the disturbing dreams increased in intensity, and he only found reprieve in the insistent beeping of his pager or alarm clock. Therefore, the hours he slept were anything but restful and he felt completely drained of all energy – barely having the stamina to get to work on time or rather when the Dean of Medicine and his fellows had come to expect him. He stumbled as a wave of nausea dowsed his stomach in ice. _Great, now I've caught some virus from treating those snot-nosed brats at the clinic_ , he thought bitterly.

He was only a few feet from his office when he heard the familiar click-clack of stilettos and an all too familiar voice screech his name.

"House, where in the hell have you been? This is the 4th time you have been late – even by your own screwed up standards for attendance. If it happens again, I'm writing you up," Cuddy stated, defiance coating each word.

"Understood, Warden," House replied sarcastically without turning around, continuing the trek to his haven – away from the boss' unrelenting wrath.

"What is with you, House? Are you hungover?" Cuddy asked – a hint of worry, drenching a bit of the fire from her voice.

"I wish," House muttered roughly, before turning his head slightly and uttering more loudly, "The hooker I hired for the week must've really taxed my strength, but let me tell you – she is one satisfied woman, if you know what I mean," he bragged, winking obnoxiously at her.

Cuddy rolled her eyes and huffed angrily, before stomping off to manipulate some unsuspecting donor or to reassure a patient threatening to sue.

House unlocked his office, opening the door slowly. As he limped inside, the room spun and tilted relentlessly before him, and he leaned heavily against the doorway to prevent himself from sliding to the floor. After a few minutes, the uncomfortable sensation passed, leaving in its place a feeling of disorientation and nausea. He stumbled to his couch and fell heavily on the inviting cushions, wiping his feverish forehead.

"This is one of the main reasons I avoid interacting with patients at all costs," he grumbled. His head sunk further into the cool leather and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the dark abyss of sleep.

 _He dreamed of ice; his whole being was encased in it, and every nerve ending rebelled against the fiery numbness paralyzing his every thought and movement. He tried to breathe through it, ignore the pins and needles sensation assaulting his muscles, but there was no escaping the pain. He knew he was being punished for something, but he failed to recall his exact transgression. His dad's face swam before him, his features blurred due to the tears clouding his vision._

" _It's for your own good, you know," his father stated, his tone emotionless. "I'm just trying to make you stronger; you're so weak, vulnerable. One day you'll thank me, Greg. One day you'll show me the respect that I deserve," he growled in a low, controlled voice as he yanked him from the tub and tossed a towel roughly over his trembling shoulders, his palms resting there, trapping him under their firm grip._

" _John, is everything alright?" his mother asked cautiously from the other side of the door._

" _Everything's fine, Blythe. Just finishing up in here, aren't we, Greg?" he asked, his cheerful voice belying the warning in his cold, blue eyes._

" _Y-yes, sir," Greg mumbled, His father's fingers dug hard into his shoulder, causing him to hiss in pain before he continued. "Dad was just teaching me some insightful lessons he learned as a marine. Very enlightening," he finished, imitating his dad's faux cheerfulness._

" _Okay, well, hurry up you two. Dinner's ready," she said, uncertainly, her footsteps retreating._

 _As soon as she had returned to the kitchen, John House slapped his son hard across the cheek, the force of the blow sending him flying to the floor_

" _Ungrateful, brat! You think I can't tell when you're mocking me! Go to your room! You can go without supper tonight; maybe I can starve out some of that sarcasm."_

 _Greg laid on the cold, tile floor, trembling, not moving until another slap from his father jolted him from his shocked stupor. He bolted from the bathroom and up the stairs, the towel billowing behind him like a worn cape._

Author's Note: I know it's been forever, but I was inspired! Let me know what you think. Thanks!


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